The Letter: Kill Me, Darling
by Elyos
Summary: 21-year-old depressed artist Charlene Walters joins the BRC's open house tour on October 21st, hoping to meet whatever spirits the local legends spoke of. And then...


Friday, October 21st...

It's been hot. Too hot for the autumn season. However, the climate wasn't enough to stop 21-year-old Charlene Walters from suddenly departing from her home with her backpack full of art supplies: two sketchbooks, two sets of charcoal pencils, a two pencil sharpeners, two sets of colored markers, two bottles of water, and no indication to her parents as to where she was heading off to, or that she was even leaving... an act repeated since her early teenage years. Convinced that her parents didn't care about her, Charlene took to doing whatever she wanted; seeking comfort in places other than home to ease the depressive pain in her heart. In her entire life, Charlene hasn't drunk a single drop of alcohol, nor has she taken a single puff of a cigarette. She has, instead, taken to self-inflicted harm to curb her sadness; the scars on her wrists, the evidence—each one a story, all of which ended the same.

Charlene didn't bring a paring knife with her this time. She was on her way to the Ermengarde Mansion, for two reasons. Reason number one: the local legends surrounding the mansion excited Charlene, for they were a darkness that took right after her own wailing heart. Reason number two: Charlene caught wind of an open house tour today, hosted by the Briar Realty Corporation, in which potential consumers would show up for a look around the grand old mansion. The BRC wanted to sell the property off to a buyer, and, well, the only buyers who were sure to make an appearance were rich nobles; lords and ladies, pampered socialites, kings, queens, gods... and whatever else Charlene couldn't think of. Charlene knew she'd never be able to afford a home like the Ermengarde Mansion in her whole miserable lifetime. She thought she would take comfort in that sort of pain, by losing her poor, moneyless self among the sea of rich folk, if only to be alone in the mansion's crowded halls.

If Charlene were to be honest, all she really wanted was to die, but she was too afraid to kill herself. She wanted someone, or some _thing_ to do the deed for her. And Charlene figured, if she were to die today, she wanted it to happen by succumbing to whatever vicious spirits lay waiting in the Ermengarde Mansion. After all, the mansion was once the premise of pain, torture, and death. There would have been nothing more romantic than dying in the halls of a glorious mansion like this one.

That was why, when Charlene stood in line to sign the guest list at the Ermengarde Open House, she removed her glasses, folded them, and slipped them onto the collar of her bland shirt. Charlene's eyesight was horrible. Without her glasses, the world looked so beautiful, because she couldn't see the ugliness it had to offer—even when she looked in a mirror. She looked around at the blurred paradise before her, seeing only bright, clashing colors, indecipherable and moving. Such rich attire, donned by such rich people, and Charlene's clothes felt like rags covering an inadequate body compared to them.

All the more reason she wanted to die today. She would die doing what she loved most. As if acknowledging her love, her backpack suddenly weighed a pound heavier than it did a moment before. Two sketchbooks, two sets of charcoal pencils, two pencil sharpeners, two sets of coloring markers, and two bottles of water. If Charlene learned anything from her short life here on earth, it was to double the pleasure, in case one went missing. This... almost seemed like a bad idea. A voice in the back of Charlene's brain screamed for her to turn back, to live a long, healthy life, to stop cutting herself in the shower, to keep doing what she loved most... but another voice at the front of her brain asked her what was the point of it all. No matter what she did, or how she did it, she was destined to be last place. Death was Charlene's only gateway to true happiness.

When the crowd segregated into two groups, one to tour the first floor, led by a small Asian woman with a pony tail, the length of which likely made up for her short stature, and the other to tour the ground floor, led by a taller, green-haired woman with a motherly air about her, Charlene chose to accompany the green-haired woman's group. No preference; it made no difference to Charlene who she wanted leading her around the mansion, because she planned to sneak off anyway.

The Asian woman cheerfully led a smaller gaggle of tourists up the grand staircase, while the green-haired woman started off introducing herself as _Rose Cooper_ before leading Charlene's group to some room Charlene didn't really care about.

All Charlene wanted was to meet whatever the local legends spoke of about this place. Ghosts? One ghost, or many ghosts? Or some other beast entirely? She was sure it'd be a ghost, though.

The tour went on and on, in part because the people in Charlene's group wouldn't stop asking Rose questions about this or that. Rose wasn't exactly a long-winded tour guide, but she handled herself with so much poise, confidence, and care, that Charlene, for a moment, wanted to run into Miss Cooper's arms and tell her she wanted to die; maybe Rose could save her.

But then Charlene didn't. She kept quiet, lagging behind the group as they went on to the next room. Nobody noticed Charlene getting left behind.

 _That's true, though, isn't it?_ Charlene thought wistfully. _No one notices me falling behind. I'll never be remembered when I'm gone._

Despite herself, Charlene set her bag on the counter. She assumed it was a counter. She couldn't tell exactly where she was, due to her horrible eyesight along with ignoring every word that came out of Rose's mouth. Judging by the vague atmosphere, Charlene would have said she was standing in the mansion's kitchen. The room was thick with silence, disturbed only by Rose Cooper's muffled voice as she answered more questions posed by the tourists in the next room over. Unzipping her backpack, Charlene harvested her sketchbook and charcoal pencils. Since she was all alone, she figured she'd make a sketch or two. Something to distract her from the aching of her heart. Even without her glasses on, she could see her own work well enough.

Charlene was in the middle of sketching a scene of sexual nature involving two characters belonging to another intellectual property all together, commissioned by someone with a raunchy screen name on the Internet. Aside from drawing innocent pictures, Charlene made a little extra money by drawing and selling pornographic artwork to thirsty men (and sometimes women) online. She didn't like any of the stuff people asked her to draw—some of it made her gag as she worked on it—but whatever earned Charlene a few extra pounds here and there was time well-spent... despite being a waste of her talent as an artist. Money brought Charlene a little bit of happiness. Money and praise. Though, most of the time praise was like a white-hot knife. It hurt.

Her hand stopped in mid-pencil stroke when she heard the sound of strangulated moaning, the clicks the throat makes when it closes off. Charlene wrinkled her nose at the smell of blood and decay. First, fear shot through Charlene like a big black dart... followed by _excitement._ Something was happening... something supernatural! She could feel it by the chill in the air, the sounds of the clicking throat getting louder. And then Charlene looked up from her sketchbook, and—

There it was. Or, rather, _she._ There _she_ was. An inhuman monster, a female ghost—or zombie—with flesh so torn and ripped and unclean, rotting and bleeding and as pale as chalk. A curtain of filthy black hair hung in the woman's face, her tattered clothes barely clinging to her twisted, broken body.

This... this was... this was it! For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile snuffed away Charlene's frown. She had to put her glasses back on. Through her specs, the details of the ghost woman became clear. She was grinning at Charlene. A sort of mad grin, like she wanted to kill Charlene in the worst way imaginable. Charlene dropped her sketchbook and pencil on the floor, letting a noise escape her throat. It was an elated cry of surprise. An evil ghost, in so much pain, so much agony, so much _hell,_ presented herself before Charlene.

"T... take me with you," Charlene found herself saying. "Please... take me with you. I want to die here. Could you please take me with you?"

The ghost didn't do anything. She stared at Charlene, that smile never breaking, those eyes, never softening. This ghost hated Charlene, and Charlene loved her for it.

"Please," Charlene said again, desperation crawling into her voice. "I want this! I want to stay here with you! Let me live with you, forever and ever! Help me!"

 _Help me..._

"W-what?"

 _Help me..._

"I... can help you. But I can only help you, as long as you help me, first. Please?"

Out of nowhere, the ghost woman's mouth stretched open as she blasted Charlene in the face with the loudest, most deafening shriek she ever heard. Rotting wind that was the ghost's breath assaulted Charlene's nostrils and made her gag. Charlene couldn't take the sound of it. She covered her ears with her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the ghost to kill her. But the ghost kept screaming and screaming, until she screamed no more. Charlene opened her eyes.

The ghost was gone.

It left her, having not taken her life. It left Charlene alone in silence. And with that silence, Charlene's thoughts changed. She no longer wanted to die. She wanted to simply stay with the ghost. This ghost, this horrible, putrid, unappealing, foul miscreation of a hellborne spirit—Charlene loved her just like a sister. This ghost seemed to share Charlene's misery and sorrow.

Picking up her sketchbook and pencil, Charlene turned the page over, blinding herself to the commission. She began sketching the ghost, and the sketch wasn't finished until Rose came back into the kitchen, worried about Charlene. She must have realized Charlene was missing, after all. And, from the sounds of it, Rose, nor anybody, heard the ghost shrieking a little bit ago.

Charlene left the mansion with a new bounce in her step. She returned home with the face of the shrieking ghost haunting her sketchbook.

Charlene couldn't wait to see the ghost again.


End file.
